


Forever Is Our Today

by ursa_maritima



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Critical Role Relationship Week, Gen, is there such a thing as gentle angst, soft-focus sad maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:57:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17332220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursa_maritima/pseuds/ursa_maritima
Summary: Bears rarely live past 40.  Half-elves, somewhere around 200 years.A ranger's companion bear, especially one blessed by the spirit of great bear, might be granted the same number of years as their ranger.A half-elf druid measures their age not in years, nor decades, nor even centuries; when you live for millennia, there's not much call for keeping track.





	Forever Is Our Today

**Author's Note:**

> the major character deaths warned of are Vox Machina aside from Keyleth, if the kraken fight in ep 88/07x04 had gone very, very wrong. (before the fic's setting; fighting is described briefly, but their deaths are not.) In the fic itself, there are old-age related deaths as well. 
> 
> Title from Queen's Who Wants To Live Forever

It’s been long enough that the only time she remembers them as they died is in her nightmares.  
It’s the same start, every time; between one heartbeat and the next she’s in the middle of the battle with the kraken, trying to keep one eye on the great beast while she searches for Taryon and Percy because they’re lost, she can’t see them, hasn’t seen them in too long. The better of the nightmares end there, when she bursts upright out of bed, fingers sparking, teeth bared, only to flop back down as the ever-present sound of windchimes brings her back to the present.

The worse ones continue. 

Vax breaks off his attack to bolt over to Vex- good, he’ll stabilize her- but he only pauses briefly, his action blocked by his body, but it makes Vex’s unmoving form drift at a different angle. Then he’s right in front of her, momentum carrying him into her, and he grabs her hands, wrapping a long length of leather around one of her forearms before his hands fall gently against either side of her face.  
“Go,” he tells her, “you have to go, Keyleth. You’re the only one who can finish-”  
As always, his words are broken off as they are knocked into one of the broken seamounts by a furious tentacle and for a long moment she thinks this time, of all the times, she’ll catch him.  
She doesn’t. She never does.  
He turns away as she grabs for his wrist, and her fingers graze his armor as he dissipates into the misty smoke of Whisper’s shadow movement; she can see him reappear just above one eye of the great beast. The arm that had been whipping arrow-straight for her suddenly thrashes, recoiling back towards Vax’s distant form- he’s right, it’s not fair, it hurts, but she closes her eyes, fingers clenching bloodlessly around her staff as she planeshifts away. It’s not the end. It’s _not_. She’s going back for them.  
She does go back, even in her nightmares. The seamount is there; the wreckage of that long-eroded ship pokes through the sand like shards of bone. But the sea floor is still, untracked, the barest hint of wave action beginning to drag tracks across its surface. No indications anywhere of their battle, of their shed blood, of their bodies. She casts her spells time and again and again until she’s got nothing left, floating motionless in the slight current. 

When she wakes, it always takes too long to remember that they’re gone. The windchimes don’t help with this one.  
Her back’s usually the first thing that reminds her of the fact that it’s been centuries, not days, since that fight. Unless it’s an especially cold morning- then her wrists remind her, too. She opens her eyes to the sun-bleached wood, worn silk-smooth under her fingers as she uses the window ledge to help pull herself upright to begin her day. These walls used to be hers; built after she completed her Aramente, to be her home at Zephra, she spent weeks druidcrafting those panels to ensure no snags, no splinters. After serving as Voice of the Tempest for so long, however, it was easier to train her replacement and then let them take over the house. She’d wandered for a couple years; checked up on Whitestone, on Cassandra’s great-grandchildren (she’d stopped keeping count of how many ‘great’s there _should_ be after the first 100 years), basked in the Marquesan sunshine with J’mon Sa Ord, that sort of thing. Eventually Zephra had called her home again, and she’d moved into a house closer to the cliffside. The past few weeks she’d been back ‘on duty’ while the current Voice of the Tempest was off fixing a fault issue in Wildemount, and she was looking forward to getting back to her cliffside house with its broad deck, perfect for hours in the sun spent basking in various shapes, listening to the world around her. Speaking of basking, though- that wide band of sunlight streaming in through the window across the room looks _really_ inviting. She can be ‘on duty’ as Minxie, right? Right. Keyleth tidies up the remnants of her breakfast, then shoves the little dining set closer to the wall, taking Minxie form before curling up in the beckoning sunshine. She’s not even tired, but the heat that soaks into her is a comforting warmth that takes the last bits of stiffness out of her joints and lets her drift. It’s not meditation the way Kerrek had once mentioned to her, but it seems to serve a similar purpose. 

“Eld-” Keyleth doesn’t have to even turn, after all these years, before the voice behind her gulps audibly. “er, Keyleth. Lady, there’s a message for you,” it continues, and there’s a soft scrape of wood on stone as the messenger shifts. Keyleth heaves a sigh, stretching out broad, furred paws that have long since changed from inky stripes of black to muted, luminous silver that shimmer in the sun. She rolls to her feet, shedding her Minxie form with a carefully hidden wince, and takes a few measured steps to the broad chair she uses for official business. For such a short distance she doesn't need her sticks, not if she moves slowly enough. Three weeks of no responsibilities, only two days left before the current Voice of the Tempest is due to return from their home visit- of course official business wouldn't wait until Keyleth’s temporary responsibilities were discharged.  
“Who has need of the services of the Voice, and what might that need be, then, kiddo?”  
“Oh, no, Lady, the message is for you, personally.”  
“Me?” She’s taken aback, startled. Most of the people she was close to were either here in Zephra or had their own ways of contacting her, and the few that weren’t would hardly be using Ashari messengers. “Well, okay. Go on.”  
He manages to get seven words into his message before Keyleth is gone, hurtling towards the nearest tree big enough to walk through. She doesn't bother dropping her raven form before casting her spell and swooping through the tree, emerging from the tree she'd planted in Vesrah fast enough that she has to struggle to gain height and avoid splattering herself against the sea-wall protecting the garden courtyard. She lands as her usual self just outside the open archway and pushes inside, half-blind with eyes still adjusting from raven's sight. 

Right up until the moment she sees his head turn over the heavy dark fur of his shoulders, she's certain this is a mistake. Ten years after the kraken, maybe. Even twenty- but the young half-orc standing next to the coral tree is the third of the Heart of the Tides Keyleth has watched grow to come into their power, and the only reason there's only been one other Voice of the Tempest is that as a gnome, Laila was just now approaching middle age. Keyleth’s not sure how many years exactly it’s been because it- well. It never really mattered. Time had brought other brightness, joy and happiness that had tucked themselves in around her, but time had never truly blunted the sharp edges of loss.  
So to see Trinket standing by the coral, looking almost small next to Bet, still in his armor, coat curled slightly from the ambient humidity- it’s enough to make her doubt her senses, doubt everything that’s happened over these long years, and for a brief moment she feels- she _knows_ , deep in her bones, that Vex is about to walk into the room at her back, Vax on her heels bickering with Grog. It’s so strong a feeling that she turns around to glance behind her. There’s nothing there, of course, just the scattered few water Ashari at the edges of the room. When she turns, Trinket’s only a few feet away from her, paused in midstep with his head tilted in confusion. She can’t find her voice, her breath frozen around this tangled knot in her chest, but she stretches a hand out towards him, transferring more of her weight onto her staff. _Key-Leth?_ he hruffs, stepping closer to sniff delicately at her hand before he bumps it up in a long-familiar motion that brings her fingers into the best skritching spot. _is Key-Leth okay? Key-Leth smells different._  
it’s too much, hearing his voice, smelling the earthen cinnamony scent of his fur- her knees give way as she falls against him, her staff clattering to the floor, her hands clenched tightly on the straps of his armor.

\---

_Trinket has had a very strange few days. He remembers the Underwater, which was dark like the Underdark but wet, and he remembers the itchy feeling of the shape changing into a- Trinket forgets what Mother had said it was. Big, no fur, and everything had- No. nothing had smelled, everything had_ heard _, had_ felt _, like his nose had become his skin and his skin had become ears and- okay, Trinket is Very Smart, Mother always says; but Trinket is a Very Smart Bear, not a….a_ whole. _Or whatever it was. He remembers biting deep into a hard coil of muscle with sharp cutting bits underneath it, remembers bitter cold blood and a flash of hurt, and then he remembers nothing. He does remember waking on sunwarmed wood, salt smell still coating his nose. He remembers hurting, again, briefly, before the familiar warm touch of healing took it away. These smells are the water Key-Leth people, salt and warmth and fish- oh, he remembers that, too; delicious red fish, fat and fresh and oily and Mother hadn't even- oh. It was strange, remembering that; Mother always made faces when he ate fish fresh like that. He had forgotten to be careful and he’d gotten it all over his fur, but Mother hadn't tugged him away into the water to clean off yet._  
_He hasn't...Mother’s...not here. But the Safe-Place is. Trinket is Very Smart but he doesn't know what that means. Mother goes away sometimes, and sometimes Trinket Stands Watch on their home, and sometimes Trinket stays in the Safe-Place, but she always tells him what they’re doing and the last thing Trinket remembers is...is. Is being a Whole and biting and hurt and nothing.  
Bet tells him Key-Leth is coming and then tells him Key-Leth is here, but when he turns and he sees the tallest figure leaning on a long staff, he sees antlers but the hair is white and silver, not red like sunset. He takes a deep inquisitive breath, and a drift of earth-pine-leather that smells familiar but also...different. Like that forest they’d hunted in, the cold place. Key-Leth was pine like young trees with the sweetest branch-tips and this pine-smell was like the biggest trees, branches too far off the ground for an adult bear to climb to, thick mats of needles covering the ground, sticky sap and scarred bark and oh! Trinket remembers now! He had been in the Safe-Place for the fight with the lion-bird-man but when they had been eating together after Other-Mother had smelled different until Little-Bright-Light had fixed him. Key-Leth must have visited another lion-bird-man. “Key-Leth?” he hruffs at her, and she falls into his shoulder with a surprisingly lighter thump than Trinket remembers. “Little-Bright-Light can fix that,” he says, nosing around the cascade of white hair. When she doesn’t respond, Trinket isn’t sure what to do. “Key-Leth?”_

\---

Keyleth can hear Trinket, but it’s like trying to hear a whisper in a hurricane. This is too overwhelming; she can feel her heart thud erratically in her chest, feels that itchy-crawly feeling wild-shape makes when it’s pressing at her. Strong emotion’s never been her strong suit, and the stronger she got at wild-shape the harder it was to suppress the urge to shift and change. Heartbreak’s more distant as a dragon. With enough sunshine Minxie can work through any grief. Becoming the air itself makes burning excess excitement as easy as thought. What she’s feeling now is too complex, too tightly-packed, too explosive, and she’s afraid of it. Nearly a thousand years of rage/heartache/grief/longing that she’s lived with, lived around, laid to rest; undone in seconds. It feels like they’ve all rebounded down on her; she’s a kite lost in a storm, afraid to move or breathe for fear that everything will come rushing out of her in fire. She destroyed part of a mountain, that way, a couple centuries after losing Vox Machina. She can’t risk losing control here. So she clutches at Trinket, one hand wrapped around the harness that holds his armor, the other clenched probably too tightly in his thick fur, and tries to find the eye.  
The fingers that curl slowly, cautiously around hers are small enough to be Pike’s, but they’re wrinkled, not calloused. The voice is deeper, too, as the words addressed to Trinket begin to filter through the storm. 

“It’s good to meet you, Trinket. I’ve grown up on stories of your adventures, of your bravery.” She hadn’t seen Vero come in, but he must have been there, helping to guide Bet in their first years as Heart of the Tides. “You’re bigger than I’d pictured, though I suppose that’s to be expected when your storyteller’s as tall as a tree. Would you like some help getting out of this armor? It’s quite covered with salt, that can’t be very comfortable.” As he speaks, a feeling that is both cool and warm, like sun-warmed water or heavy silk, sinks into Keyleth’s hand from his. As it spreads, it’s not a door shutting out the storm, but like a tether; before, she felt like she was tumbling uncontrolled through the chaos, and now she’s steady, centered. Her emotions may be wild and uncertain, but she’s no longer drowning in them. She’s too focused on her breathing to hear Trinket’s response, but does catch Vero’s gentle confusion. “I’m sorry, Trinket, I don’t know who that is.”  
_Little-Bright-Light. She fixed Other-Mother when he smelled winter-funny._  
“Pike,” Keyleth finds herself saying. “Little-Bright-Light, that’s Pike Trickfoot.” Vero’s looking at her curiously. “When we met, I was the only one who could talk to Trinket in his language. I told him everyone’s names, but he always liked the ones he came up with better.” She pauses, rubbing Trinket’s forehead the way Vax used to after sneaking him a treat. “Other-Mother, that’s Vax. I think he means aged- we had a bit of a showdown with a sphinx, and several of us got hit with spells that aged us by years or decades. Pike used Greater Restoration to restore our years.”  
“Ah, Pike Trickfoot! Yes, I did meet her once, when I was quite small. She told me a terrible joke and I had to mend nets for weeks after I repeated it to my teachers.” Vero releases Keyleth’s hand, tugging gently on one of the straps on Trinket’s armor. “Come, Trinket. Let’s get that armor off you so you can greet Keyleth properly,” he says, leading him away. The grey-blue hand that lands on Keyleth’s shoulder is gentle, but insistent, and she turns to glance upward at Bet.  
“Couple of kids playing in the shallows yesterday found this,” they explain as they take Keyleth’s hand, rotating it upwards to place something in it. She uncurls her fingers to reveal the subtle gleam of the Raven’s Slumber. She thought she’d been doing okay controlling her expression, but as Bet makes a distressed noise and steps closer, folding their arms around her tightly, she’s pretty sure she’s lost. 

\---

She takes Trinket back to Whitestone, to the ring of markers around the Sun Tree. She feels the sting of tears again as he lowers his head to the curled briar ring of Vex’s marker, pressing against it the way he used to thump his head into her chest. She watches as he makes his way slowly around the circle- there’s no graves, of course, nothing in the dirt here except tree roots. Just markers of stone, wood- a tiny shaded bench for Percy that stands next to Doty, reduced to a statue once his enchantment finally failed. The book he usually held is replaced by a crystal showing the view of Tiberius’s marker in Draconia. There’s a series of carved cylinders that sing in the wind for Scanlan, a garden of sweet herbs for Pike, both added much later; she’d made sure to leave space for them. The training dummy is worn smooth from years of hands practicing strikes, carved goliath tattoos nearly invisible in the fading light. There's a dark, glossy stone ring angled slightly to match the briar one, carved to look like interweaving feathers. She’s not sure who started it, but there’s a legend now in Whitestone that if you fire an arrow or throw a dagger through the briar ring and make it through the stone circle into the ironwood of the training dummy, the Grey Hunt will bless you with speed, true aim, and strength. Cassandra had told her of watching students camp out on Percy’s bench the night before exams, of passing minstrels pausing to sing some harmonies with the wind, how people still stop by to tend to Pike’s garden after their devotions in Saranrae’s temple. Cassandra’s not here, of course, she’s with the other de Rolos in the whitestone crypt, along with her children and grandchildren and great-etc grandchildren. There’s an empty casket for percival in the crypt- well, not empty. Full of his notes, his workbooks, his sketches. Not his journals, safely preserved in the library.  
With an effort she pulls her gaze away from the castle and turns back to the circle. Druidcrafting isn't effortless like it used to be, but it’s certainly not difficult- it’s still a matter of moments to hollow out a tiny section in the briar ring to snugly fit Raven Slumber inside.  
“Trinket?” He sits back on his hind legs with a thump and looks back at her. “Do you-” she stops, suddenly unwilling to offer him this choice. It’s not fair to him, though, and she finds her voice again. “Do you want to go back to the necklace, Trinket? You can stay with-” except it’s not her, Vex isn’t here, of course. And if he does Keyleth will be alone, again. He ambles over to her, knocking his shoulder gently against her side, shoving his head under her hands.  
_Where is home now?_ he whuffs as she curls her fingers loosely in his fur.  
“Zephra,” she answers.  
_When you go home, I go too._

\---

It’s warm in this patch of sunlight, but not quite enough to banish all the chill in the breeze that wafts in through the open walls of her home. Keyleth curls a bit tighter against the radiating warmth of the bear at her back, patting him blindly as he makes a quiet questioning sound.   
“S’okay, Trinket. It’s not time to get up yet.”   
_Key-Leth?_   
“Yes?”   
_Can we go visit them?_ Keyleth sits up, taking a second to catch her breath.   
“Of course, buddy. It’s been awhile since I talked with Sun Tree.” She fixes them breakfast, which they eat while watching the last of the frost melt, before trading her mantle for a thick wool cloak- a brisk fall morning in Zephra is going to be considerably colder in Whitestone. They’re intercepted before they make it to Keyleth’s usual tree, however, by one of Laila’s students.  
“Oh, Lady Keyleth, I’m glad I caught-” She deflates instantly at Keyleth’s dubious glance, smoothing partially-webbed fingers nervously through the fabric charmed to help keep her skin moist. “Sorry, Lady. Laila sent me to you.”  
“I certainly don’t need help transporting via plants,” Keyleth says tartly.  
“No, of course not. But it’s been some time since we checked in with the library at Whitestone College, and Laila- I mean, I thought...since you were going, I’d come along and run some errands while you were busy.” Keyleth watches as Sarva’s blue cheeks begin to flush purple and sighs. It’s not her fault that Laila thinks she’s too old to travel without a minder.  
“Better go get a coat, then, Sarva. Whitestone’s gonna be far colder than Zephra.” Sarva shrugs one shoulder dismissively.  
“It’s the dryness I care about,” she explains, “not the cold. Da’s folk are deep-water born, we’re no strangers to cold.”  
“I’ll believe that after you pass a winter in Whitestone,” Keyleth snorts as they exit into brilliant sunshine reflecting off sparkling snow. “Go on up, then. We’re going to relax here for awhile.”  
She and Trinket wander around the ring of markers slowly, touching places worn silken-smooth by thousands of hands, and when they'd turned to face the long walk up to the library decided wordlessly that it was a much better idea to relax here by the tree.  
_This is nice_ Trinket rumbles behind her, and Keyleth hums her agreement. Just the right amount of sunlight filtering through the Sun Tree’s leaves to give an illusion of warmth, combined with the thick patterned wool cloak and the radiant warmth of Trinket curling at her back. The Sun Tree’s voice was slow, drowsy, not yet awake from winter’s night, still murmuring sleepily at the corners of her thoughts. Keyleth thinks briefly of shifting to Minxie, just for an added bit of warmth, but decides it’s too comfortable to move. She can always do it later, once the sun sets. Besides, it seems to be warming up. Maybe the wind’s died down, or shifted directions. She curls into Trinket instead, resting her cheek on his shoulder, content to enjoy the moment. 

\---

Sarva jogged down the smooth pavers of the main road from the library building towards the Sun Tree at the center square. The sky was considerably more orange than she’d anticipated it being; she’d lost track of time talking with some of the students. Hopefully Keyleth hadn’t gotten tired of waiting and decided to leave her! But no, she’s ancient but not scatterbrained, she wouldn’t. She’s probably just-

...Gone? There’s nobody at the benches, nor at the Sun Tree. That guard that she’d passed on her way out had said that she’d seen them there, though! One tall half-elf with stupidly gorgeous silver hair (Sarva’s not jealous, okay. She’s not. It’s just not fair that- whatever. Forget it. Keyleth’s _distinctive_ , okay, that’s the point) and an overly-large bear turned nearly blonde with age can’t hide very easily. But hide they have, apparently. Sarva walks a slow circle around the wide base of the Sun Tree, avoiding the root galls on the western si-  
There aren’t any root galls on the Sun Tree. They’d walked straight out of it earlier that day, and it had been a normal, picture-perfect trunk with a slightly sunward lean. Sarva spins around, calling light to her fingers to throw her surroundings into sharp relief.  
It’s not a gall, she realizes. Or rather, it is, but- It’s wood, covered with the thin patterned whorls of the Sun Tree’s bark, but it’s unmistakeably also a giant bear, half-curled around an antler-headdress wearing half-elf. She stretches a hand out (that’s only shaking a little, she’s distantly proud of that) to touch the shape of a shoulder. Wood. Looks like wood, feels like wood. She’s not very good at speaking with plants, but she scoots a bit to the right in order to place her other hand on the normal shape of the Sun Tree.  
“Sun Tree?” the only response is a sleepy, welcoming mumble. “Thanks, but. Um. I know it’s barely spring and you’re not really up for a lot of talking but I- I need to find Keyleth, if...if that’s...um.” This time she gets a wave of affection and reassurance, and the sense that more is coming. She waits, trying to focus on the unfamiliar spell and keep it steady.  
_Kiki’s a-okay,_ the Sun Tree finally drawls, _She’s gonna stay with me awhile_.  
“...oh,” Sarva says, a little unsteadily.  
_You’re a good student, little fish_. It’s said so affectionately that she can’t really take offense at what is usually a pejorative. _You can come and chat with me any day. Those big ol’ northern pines, they just love to needle ya. Don’t let it get you down._  
“Did...you just...did you just make a pun?” Sarva nearly drops her hands off the tree in shock, and hastily strengthens her grip. The response this time is another warm chuckle, this one fading back into sleepy contentment at the end. She stares at the wooden shapes for a long moment, dragging in a long, deep breath of crisp cool air and gathering her wits about her before she steps through the Sun Tree and back to Zephra.

\---

_Trinket feels fingers that smell like Mother’s tree-leather-pine digging through his fur, scratching just the right spot under the corner of his jaw, and the faintest hint of sharp-leather-pine whispers across his nose as Other-Mother leans close to his ears.  
Thanks for looking out for her, buddy. _

**Author's Note:**

> dear friend: WOW OUCH  
> dear friend: THAT HURT MY SOUL  
> me: *delighted cackle* I feel like a Real Writer now


End file.
